


The Nights Cold And My Heart Empty

by ashilrak



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, It's not first person, M/M, the summary is an excerpt from a letter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8645437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashilrak/pseuds/ashilrak
Summary: "I live in ignorance, my dear, and it is beyond blissful. I can say and write and read and hear the words that tell me you are dead, but I do not know and understand. I fear the day that understanding is reached, for I am barely hanging on by a thread now, and the day the knowledge truly sinks in is the day that thread will fray and snap and I will be left scrambling for purchase I cannot find."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jonessjughead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonessjughead/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by a fanart by furiiousa on tumblr
> 
> http://furiiousa.tumblr.com/post/136099949993/tomorrow-therell-be-more-of-us-i-just-have-this

Alexander Hamilton was a busy man.

He had always been the type to throw himself into whatever task was set before him with all of his being, and not stop until it was finished. He was the only thing keeping he could trust and rely on, and his work was the only thing he had to show for himself.

His work was the only thing he could rely on.

Once upon a time Alexander Hamilton knew how to take a break. When he was a child his mother would take his mind from his school work with promises of sweets she had saved up for, and his neighbor would always ask for him to join in their games.

During his studies he had friends and a flurry of essays to write and drills to learn and riots to survive. He was always working, but it was always changing, focusing on one task to take a break from another.

He worked hard through the war, knowing that every moment might be his last, and that was the type of outlook Alexander Hamilton had craved his entire life. It motivated him and drove him to do more and more, and start to crave the command that would help him later in life. For once, he could see a future ahead of him, and that only made him burn brighter.

But Alexander Hamilton during the war had John Laurens, or rather, John Laurens had Alexander Hamilton. The southern boy would complete his tasks to the best of his ability, working long into the night, speaking of dreams of a future where slavery was nonexistent.

Alexander liked to believe in that sort of future, and he liked to believe in John Laurens even more.

Laurens was the type of man that had a fire inside of his soul that was visible in his eyes - the kind that brought men to him who would suddenly find themselves willing to die right then and there had the other man only asked.

Alexander Hamilton had pined after John Laurens, and the day he realized his prayers may have finally been answered was the day that he was pulled aside and kissed hard.

It was a sudden thing, but it was the best thing.

He found himself no longer pining for his fellow aide from a distance, but rather touching in the dark and sharing whispers and promises while they worked. Alexander would continue to work into the night and morning on whatever tasks he had been assigned by the General or himself, and John was the only one who could pull him away.

Laurens would say things about how he couldn’t sleep without the comfort of Alexander’s embrace, or how he longed to lose himself in the distractions of Alexander’s lips. 

He fell for it every time, but he still managed to get the work done. Alexander didn’t know if he would have lasted through the war without the pauses from the madness Laurens had forced upon him, or if he would have sputtered out like hot coals left to the rain.

War moved quick and war moved slow, and they had no control over what pace it chose from day to day. 

It picked up speed toward the end, and Alexander and John were ripped apart for the final time. In John’s physical absence, Alexander was able to remind himself to step away from what he was doing, if only to write John another letter.

Laurens was terrible at replying to the letters, and Alexander couldn’t help but imagine he was just a single man in a long string Laurens had claimed as his lover and left behind. Those sort of thoughts didn’t stop him from putting pen to paper, and page upon page was sent to his love.

He was writing such a letter when Eliza walked into his study, carrying the mail.

Reading the letter from Henry Laurens inspired many feelings within Alexander, but none of them were acted upon. Instead he shoved them down and threw himself into his work with a brand new fervor. 

He still found the time to write the letters, in shorter increments with larger spans between them than before.

The years passed, and so did life. 

It was ever so dull since his Laurens had left him, but Alexander found beauty in parts of it - in his wife, his family, and his country. He would channel that beauty into his words. His reports and essays were as formal as ever, the style carefully maintained to hide his background. 

His personal letters were where his passion and creativity bloomed in the pen strokes of his words and the swirls of the drawings he’d place along the edges. For his John.

They piled up, along with everything else. The letters had a special place in his desk, a drawer full of papers he’d never send. 

When Alexander found himself in Virginia, he wrote to Eliza that the trip has been extended, and he took a trip to the gravestone of John Laurens.

The letters he had kept in his desk drawer had somehow found their way into his pocket and a bundle of forget-me-nots had appeared in his hand, and Alexander pushed the question of why down with his tears as he knelt before the cold marble. 

The dirt was damp, and he could feel it staining the knees of his breaches, but he didn’t care. This was the closest he had been to John Laurens in years, and it was the closest he was ever going to be. 

Lifetimes had passed since John had held him in his arms, and so much had changed. The country was established, laws had been made, children had grown, and men had died. So many men had died.  
John had died.

It was easy for a part of Alexander to pretend that John was simply off fighting his battles when so much distance separated him from the truth, but it was impossible to deny that reality when the name was etched into to stone in front of him.

He raised his hand and traced the letters - a name he had written and whispered so many times it felt as if it was a part of him. The name was rough beneath his fingers, as if it was purposefully reminding Alexander of the harshness of the world and forcing it beneath his skin.

The forget-me-nots fell rolled out of the hand resting on his lap. Leaning forward he closed his eyes, and felt reality close in around him. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bundle of letters, tied with a ribbon the color of the uniforms they had worn - the color of the uniform John had died wearing.

These letters contained everything Alexander had never been able to say out loud, for fear of the other man pulling away. Comfort and affection were one thing, but the devotion that overwhelmed his very being was another.

His most recent letter was one that contained words Alexander had thought and written so many times they lost meaning. 

My Dearest Laurens,

You’re off fighting your own battles, and I remain here fighting mine. I don’t know what’s waiting for me on the other side. I often lie awake at night and let my mind wander to such things. When the nights are cold and my heart empty I start to picture the people who have left before me, their absences striking longing into my heart. I don’t just mean in the romantic or physical sense, but rather in all senses. 

You’re always there, in my thoughts. I think back to my childhood when I start to get melancholy, back to my memories of my mother singing to me as I struggled to find sleep in the hot and humid air that would weigh down on us. But then I think past that, when I first came to New York, and how my life started to change. It was always a struggle, I was always fighting. I’m still fighting.

You’re the one thing, the one person, I could turn to and simply live in the moment with. I’m often ridiculed for always looking ahead, and never paying attention to the now. But with you, you were the now, the then. It was always so easy to relax in your arms and your spirit. You were a source of comfort and peace in the toil that surrounded us.

I often regret not telling you everything I felt. But I know that I could not have, even if I had summoned the courage, for the feelings in my soul are too strong and forceful to be put onto paper. I’ve tried, I’ve always made the attempt. The ink is flowing now as I write and the words are forming but the emotion is lost in translation. My passions for you cannot be captured by our tools of human society - they’re far too wild.

Everything I feel is wrong and raw, and it’s not something that is meant to be found in a man’s heart but it is and now you’re gone and there’s nothing for me to direct this storm toward. I try to keep moving forward and throwing myself into my work but I cannot. Before I could turn to you, and you would lay your lips on mine and the world would melt away. You’re no longer here, and no one has your unique power over my being. 

I live in ignorance, my dear, and it is beyond blissful. I can say and write and read and hear the words that tell me you are dead, but I do not know and understand. I fear the day that understanding is reached, for I am barely hanging on by a thread now, and the day the knowledge truly sinks in is the day that thread will fray and snap and I will be left scrambling for purchase I cannot find.

I’ve never expected to live a long life, and I’ve come to terms with that. The days I spent with you were my best and brightest, and they passed so quickly. Every day before was a drag, and every day since you’ve left me has felt as if it’s lasted an eon. I await the day I draw my last breath, for it means I will finally be able to see you again.

Yours forever,  
A.Hamilton

Alexander didn’t know what he expected when he came to John Laurens’ grave, but what he expected didn’t matter. Water started to fall from the grey sky, and Alexander watched as the ink on the envelopes started to smear. 

The hundreds of pages quickly became illegible as the water rain staked its claim.

It was for the better, Alexander thought, as he finally let the tears that had built up over years run free.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a gift exchange, and the request was for canon-era lams angst, so I hope I delivered!
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


End file.
